PinUp Percy
by Icarus
Summary: Percy Weasley is honoured to pose for "the calendar of prominent up-and-coming Ministry employees for Dolittle's Squib Education Fund." Unfortunately, there's no such thing.


Pin-Up Percy

by Icarus

Percy had made good progress on his Bat Population statistics.

The quill scratched along the parchment as he crossed his T's with a quick stroke. A soft golden glow from his coveted window permeated his office, a last wash of sunlight, though Percy bent over his little desk unaware of the hour. Except that it was blessedly quiet. Late evening was the best time to work in his opinion; there were fewer distractions.

There was a _clang_ as someone knocked into a rubbish bin, then a muttered curse. Percy glanced up and glared silently at the noise._Fewer_ distractions.

He'd learned there was a significant increase in bats over the past year. Which could either point to the wet summer and a bumper crop of mosquitoes -- he carefully lifted his dangling sleeve away from the fresh ink -- or else that Vampires had multiplied in droves, and now hid amongst the 'garden variety' bats to prey on unsuspecting wizards.

Either way, he nearly had this project wrapped up.

There was a scuffing sound outside his door and someone said, "Hush!" over the rustle of some papers. The whispered response was unintelligible.

"Regina?" Percy asked, as politely as he could manage. She was supposed to handle unwanted interruptions. There was no answer, because naturally she'd gone home. Percy shook his head at this lack of work ethic, and stood to deal with these 'guests' himself. Probably Ministry visitors who'd stepped out onto the wrong floor.

There was soft rap at his door. Someone cleared their throat. "Mr Weasley?"

The door opened before he could invite them in, and Percy struggled to wipe the frown of disapproval from his face. There was always the possibility that they might be foreign dignitaries after all.

"Hello? Are you Mr Weasley?" The man in front peered at him curiously. His robes were finely tailored and of a very modern style with long, loose sleeves, though he held an old-fashioned cigarette holder clenched in his teeth. Smoke trailed behind him. "Had a devil of a time finding you."

Behind him several men hefted odd equipment, looking over his shoulder as if at a circus show.

"You did?" Percy blinked. To his knowledge no one but his immediate supervisors needed to find him. At least this point in his career.

He waved the other men in. "Okay, boys, set up right over here. Let's take advantage of the sun while we have it. Mr Weasley, we'll need you right over by the window." They swept around Percy and began loudly assembling various bits of machines. A white sheet was quickly suspended from the ceiling with the flick of a wand, and the wizard below directed. "Give me a brighter white. Yeah, that's good."

"I'm sorry but you can't just barge in and --"

"They didn't tell you?" the well-dressed wizard asked, his voice calmingly professional.

Percy's mouth worked soundlessly. _They?_ "Well, uh." Being out of the know was deadly in the Ministry, a very bad sign; admitting it, far worse. His shoulders hunched a bit. "Not in so many words exactly...."

The man clucked, shaking his head. "Communication foul-up. I apologise. They do this all the time." Percy let out the breath he was holding. A mere mistake then. It was probably Regina's fault; he was going to kill her tomorrow for forgetting to update his schedule. "We do the calendar of prominent up-and-coming Ministry employees -- naturally you've heard of Dolittle's Squib Education Fund? It's a raging success. They sell like hotcakes."

Percy drew a complete blank. He nodded sagely, "Ah, yes, of course. Dolittle's, you say?"

One of the workmen spoke up. It was clear now that the contraption he'd assembled was some sort of tall camera. It pointed in the direction of Percy's desk, which, he was grateful to note, was unclutteredif a bit dusty. Regina was definitely in deep trouble. "He has good colouring. If we can catch a bit of sun on the skin, that would be better..."

"Yes, indeed." The man eyed him up and down critically, then took Percy by the elbow. "Right over by the window if you would, thank you."

"I'm... is there anything you need from me?" Percy stood at the centre of a ring of cameras. His hands opened and closed, feeling useless.

"You need something to do with your hands. More the active type, aren't you?"

"Well, I do like to keep busy."

"We'll start with a quill." They plucked the battered quill up from his desk. "Yes, now hold that. Stroke your lips with it, yes... Look out the window -- perfect." There was a brilliant flash, though Percy knew that wasn't his good side.

"Now look contemplative," said a nasal voice behind a second camera. "You're a thinker... pondering the fate of wizardkind... the Ministry is the hub of the Wizarding world, you are centre of that wheel, making it all happen." Percy stood a little straighter. "Yes! That's it!" Another flash, this one on his good side. Then more flashes.

"I need orange flash-powder! Definitely orange for him," someone else called out. "Damn it, this has too much blue!"

"And softer lighting, I think," said another voice, hidden behind flashes.

"Oh yes. Give us a smile, doll. That's it, baby."

"Wish the hair was longer... we could do a lot with the red," another voice complained.

"How am I doing?" Percy glanced over at their director nervously. They were taking an awful lot of photos.

"Splendid, splendid! You could be a bit more relaxed of course. But we don't expect much," he shrugged, tapping ashes from his cigarette onto the floor.

"Oh?"

"Well. Only the Ministry employees who aim for higher office really work to develop 'camera presence'."

"Camera presence?" Percy frowned.

"We call it that in the business. The camera shows everything. It's a skill, you know, moving well in front of the camera. People often vote for their Minister on how he seems in the pictures."

Percy rolled his eyes. It was true though. How many times did he chide Fred and George for just skimming the headlines before they flipped to the Quidditch section? "Um. So... do I have this, ah, 'camera presence'?" He hated to ask because he was almost certain he knew the answer.

The director pursed his lips studiously. "Hmm... you're a bit stiff through the shoulders. A tad formal. But good potential I'd say; if you worked on it."

"Formal?" Percy squeaked at the all-too-familiar charge. "Stiff?" Would anyone ever vote for someone they thought seemed too 'stiff'?

"Thanks a lot, Delicto," whined one of the cameramen. "He's tightened up again."

"Here, here -- Let me help." The director stepped forward eagerly. "Why don't we loosen up your tie a bit," he breathed. Percy froze as this virtual stranger stepped into his personal space. He wasn't one for unwarranted bodily contact, but he cautiously held his peace as the director fumbled with his tie, stretching it an inch away from his chin, then unbuttoned his collar. Then he let down the next button, which made Percy blink.

He quickly stepped back from Percy. The camera flashed.

"Oh yes. Vulnerable, I like it," a cameraman crowed.

"Soul-searing."

"Nice eyes. Can we lose the glasses?"

"We definitely need a more casual atmosphere for the look." A glass was raised to his hair. "Scotch, definitely. Throw a bit of red dye in there, we need an amber..." The glass was placed in his hand, his fingers wrapped around it.

"Okay," the director said. "You're the Minister of Magic, toasting the, uh, Minister of Bulgaria."

Percy tipped his head, confused. "There's no Minister of Bulgaria. They've a completely different title." There was a flash, though he feared that didn't make a good picture. He smoothed out his face.

"And what would you say to him?"

"Oh... I - I don't know…."

"Imagine it's a benefit in his honour."

He held the glass up for the camera, then let his hand drop a little. "I feel ridiculous."

The director pulled Percy's chair back and settled into it, leaning back comfortably. He made a fluttering motion with his hand and purred, eyes half-lidded, "Just try."

Percy toasted the imaginary assembly. Then took a long, deep sip.

The next morning Percy woke in his flat, feeling strange.

He rubbed his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut as he sat up. From the give of the fabric under him he realised he was on his divan, in the living room. His shirt hung open to either side as he leaned forward onto his knees, and his tie draped over his shoulders haphazardly. He pulled it off and dropped it to the sofa. He glanced down to find that while that tight pressure around his stomach was the button of his trousers, his fly was undone and belt only half-buckled.

His glasses were folded neatly on the coffee table. Underneath his glasses --thank goodness! -- was a business card for the photographers. He prayed he hadn't humiliated himself.

After he, ah, freshened up, Percy stuck his head in the fireplace for a quick but urgent conversation. The director had a pleasant office, nicely upholstered leather chairs, and seemed pleased to see him. The man spun gracefully towards the fireplace.

"Oh, Mr Weasley, very good of you to call."

"How did - were you the one good enough to take me home last evening?"

The man chortled. "We ought to have mentioned you're not supposed to drink the props."

Percy blushed. "I woke to find myself in something of a... disarray."

"We tried to get you to put on your pyjamas, but you would have none of it and insisted that you could sleep on the sofa. Quite the shy one, you are."

Percy breathed a silent sigh of relief. It matched his own experience perfectly.

"Liquor does you no good at all, does it?"

"As anyone in the office can tell you, I generally don't touch the stuff." For good reason, too.

"Well, you were a perfect gentleman."

"How did the - how did the photos turn out?"

"Wonderful. We'll Owl you the initial contact sheets as soon as they're ready. Should be this afternoon."

His mind greatly eased, Percy stepped out of the fire.

That afternoon a strange Owl arrived. Percy quickly snatched the plain manila package away from his assistant. And as a precaution, he locked the door to his office, leaning against the heavy wood as he tore it open.

Then finally breathed again.

He appeared rather uncomfortable in the earlier photos, which was understandable. Then, as the background window grew darker, his face brightened. The last few were of himself holding up a glass and shyly taking a sip, eyes bright over the rim. Clearly the photography had ended early.

He looked... rather elegant, actually. The lighting in particular was quite professional. They'd mentioned his cheekbones and fair skin at one point, and he could see what they meant.

It was quite reassuring.

Because, throughout the day, he'd had this vivid persistent image of himself stretched across his desk, the soft edge of the blotter digging into his shoulders. He recalled the tie almost loosened all the way, his shirt open and undone... and... the pull of trousers about his thighs, as he hooked one finger in the waistband of his underwear, drawing them down.

_"Slow... slow..."_ the voice of that image said, _"you don't want to give it all away. Not too much. You want them coming back for more. Oh, indeed, that's good."_

Obviously, it was merely the product of worry and his fevered imagination.

Finis.


End file.
